


The Quiet Ones

by romanticallyinept



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Outer Worlds (Video Game), The Umbrella Academy (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Angst, Blood, Coming Untouched, Crying, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Edgeplay, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, First Time, Fisting, Hand Jobs, Kinktober 2020, Knifeplay, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Misunderstandings, Multi, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Overstimulation, Past Drug Use, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Reader-Insert, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Sensory Deprivation, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sounding, Tags added as fills posted, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26692687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticallyinept/pseuds/romanticallyinept
Summary: romanticallyinept's Kinktober 2020 fillsLatest update:Day 6: Free Use |Sensory Deprivation| Wax PlayRating: EFandom: The WitcherPairing: Eskel/JaskierRelevant tags: sensory deprivation, light dom/sub, touch starved(Marked complete, not sure if I'm going to post further prompts)
Relationships: Caustic | Alexander Nox/Mirage | Elliott Witt, Diego Hargreeves/Klaus Hargreeves, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 132





	1. Prompts

Day 1: Omorashi | **Knifeplay** | Body Swap

Day 2: Human Furniture | **Sounding** | Macro/Micro

Day 3: **Fisting** | Medical Play | Orgasm Denial

Day 4:  **Incest** | Breath Play | Leather/Latex

Day 5: **Double Penetration in One Hole** | Boot Worship | Lactation

Day 6: Free Use | **Sensory Deprivation** | Wax Play

Day 7: Rimming | Breeding | **Tentacles**

Day 8: Menophilia | Casting Couch **| Bukkake**

Day 9: Pegging | Emetophilia | **Clone Sex/Selfcest**

Day 10: **Daddy Kink** | Somnophilia | Scissoring

Day 11: Watersports | **Temperature Play** | Stockings

Day 12: Feet | Shotgunning | **Dacryphilia**

Day 13: Body Worship | Spanking | **Frottage**

Day 14: NTR | Face-sitting | **Collaring**

Day 15: **Prostitution** | Armpit | Massage

Day 16: Fucking Machine | Feederism | **Intercrural Sex**

Day 17: **Three (or more) some** | Master/Slave | Titfucking

Day 18: Pet Play | **Humiliation** | Blood Play

Day 19: Hate Sex | **Cockwarming** | Mirror Sex

Day 20: Noncon/Dubcon | **Food Play** | Creampie

Day 21: **Size Difference** | Exhibitionism/Voyeurism | Impact Play

Day 22: Formal Wear | **Overstimulation** | Sadomasochism

Day 23: Double Penetration in Two Holes | Tickling | **Shower Sex**

Day 24: Sweat | Branding | **Masturbation**

Day 25: **Bondage** | Gun Play | Inflation

Day 26: **Stripping** | Scat | Burn Play

Day 27: Public Sex | Role Reversal |  **Xenophilia**

Day 28: Crossdressing |  **Lingerie** | Distension

Day 29: **Praise Kink** | Glory Hole | Telepathic Bonds

Day 30: Sex Toys | **Deep Throating** | Stuck In Wall

Day 31: Free Day! RiRi chooses - **Somnophilia**


	2. strung out and spellbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Omorashi | **Knifeplay** | Body Swap
> 
> Rating: E  
> Fandom: The Umbrella Academy  
> Pairing: Diego/Klaus  
> Relevant tags: pseudo-incest, knifeplay, blood, SSC, RACK, feels, praise kink, safewords, hand jobs, aftercare
> 
> Title from Owl City's "Beautiful Times"

When they start… whatever it is they’re doing (Klaus hasn’t named it, and Diego is a little scared to, because naming it makes it _real_ and if it’s real, it’s something he can lose) - when they start, Klaus asks him if he ever mixes business with pleasure, and his eyes _gleam_ when they rake over Diego’s knife belt where it’s sitting on the nightstand. Diego can’t even pretend he doesn’t know what Klaus is talking about, because the hunger in his eyes and the tent in his pants is far too obvious to even grant him a semblance of plausible deniability.

Diego rolls his eyes in lieu of an answer, and Klaus doesn’t drop it after that, but he brings it up less. Once, maybe twice a month. Usually when Diego is cleaning someone else’s blood off one of his knives in the dim hours of the early morning, that’s when Klaus will sigh and stare longingly and Diego will grit his teeth and pretend he doesn’t notice.

Because the answer to Klaus’ question is _yes_ , but it’s _no_ at the same time, and it’s complicated in a way that Diego himself isn’t sure he understands. A knife in his hand feels like an extension of his body, like it’s a part of him, a limb instead of an implement. On the streets, that bleeds into how he fights. In the sheets, it bleeds into how he fucks, on the rare occasions that he allows it to, on the even rarer occasions his _partners_ allow him to. Surprisingly enough, one night stands aren’t typically excited to have Diego’s knives anywhere near their skin.

Klaus isn’t a one night stand, isn’t a stranger Diego picked up in a bar, and he definitely is excited about the fucking knives. That should make it easy. 

It’s not easy.

“These are for _work_ ,” Diego says one day, when Klaus’ gaze lingers a little too long on the blade he’s sharpening. “You don’t want to know half the shit I’ve cleaned off these. They’re not… they’re not for that.”

It sounds like a _no_ to Diego’s ears, but Klaus just perks up, sauntering over to where Diego is seated on their ratty couch. He sinks down gracefully to the floor, his skirt settling around his knees as he sits, cross-legged, at Diego’s feet.

“Do you have ones that aren’t meant for work?”

Diego sighs, his hands stilling. He knows Klaus isn’t going to let it go, isn’t going to shut up about it, and the logical thing would be to just do it and let his brother get it out of his system and move on, but… but Diego thinks about a flash of sharpened steel against Klaus’ pale skin and he knows, with an almost visceral certainty, that once won’t be enough. Diego will want more, and Klaus… well. Klaus might not.

Locking that part of himself away again is always so much harder than keeping it hidden in the first place.

“What do you want?” he asks, even though he’s fairly certain he knows the answer to his own question. 

Klaus raises an eyebrow. “Uh, it’s not obvious?” He pauses, and Diego waits him out. “I want to introduce your knives to the bedroom. To our bedroom, Or bed, technically, since the bedroom is kind of the living room too. But, yeah. The bed. While we’re in it. Naked, preferably.”

_Our bedroom._

“I don’t use these,” Diego says quietly, gesturing at the belt laying next to him. “I have… I have another set. For that.”

Klaus’ eyes go wide and bright, and the way he licks his lips is entirely too sensual for Diego to process at the moment. He’s supposed to be on the fence. He’s supposed to be thinking about this, hesitating, and he would be, except Klaus always seems to know exactly how to put him at ease, to quell the nagging questions in the back of his mind.

“Can I see?” Klaus asks, and Diego knows he’s asking for so much more than to see. 

Still. Diego carefully puts away his knife and the supplies, packing up the kit with slow, precise motions. There’s energy thrumming under his skin, and his fingers flex once, twice before he gets them under control. They want to wrap around the hilt of a blade, to make it sing in the way only he knows how. He _aches_ for it.

“Safeword?” he asks, putting his kit away in the dresser drawer where it lives. “We’re not doing this without a fucking safeword.”

“Red for stop, yellow for check-in, green for good,” Klaus recites. Then, “I trust you, Di. You know that.”

Diego’s fingers spasm. 

“Get a towel for the bed,” he says. “And the rubbing alcohol from the bathroom. Then strip and lay down. On your back.”

Klaus rises to his feet to obey, and Diego goes over to the closet. There’s a small bundle on the top shelf, almost completely hidden, and he takes it out with what almost feels like reverence. He doesn’t handle these knives on the daily. They’re special, for this alone, and just that though starts his blood pumping a little faster. God, it’s been too long.

He unrolls the bundle, revealing three glinting, immaculate knives. One is a push dagger, a small thing barely as long as his palm, but wickedly sharp all the same. The second is a stiletto, Damascus steel, long and thin and sharp as a needle-point at the tip. But the third, the third is his favorite, a delicate butterfly knife with a jet black handle and a spotless shiny blade. 

Diego picks up the butterfly knife, weighing it in his hand. For all the time it’s been, it still feels familiar, feels good. It feels right. For a moment, he tucks the knife away into his pocket, folding up the bundle and putting it back on the shelf. Then he retrieves the knife, flicks it open, and draws the edge of it across the pad of his thumb, leaving a line of blood thinner than a papercut behind. 

It’s sharp. There’s no reason left to delay. 

When Diego returns, Klaus is spread out on the bed, naked, as requested. He’s got an old towel underneath him, separating his skin from the sheets, and the bottle of rubbing alcohol is on the nightstand next to him. Everything Diego asked for is there, and for a moment, he just takes it in, lets his eyes drag over Klaus’ body: the dips between his ribs, the hollow of his throat, the sudden points of his hip bones. Klaus is all sharp angles like that.

“Rules,” Diego says, and Klaus huffs but he leans up, propping himself up on his elbows to listen. “No moving when the knife is touching you. If you do, we’re done. I’m good, but even I can’t save you from slitting your own throat with this thing if it’s already up against your neck. Good?”

Klaus nods. “Good.”

“When I say we’re done, we’re done. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“If I hurt you,” Diego begins, and then hesitates, because that’s not quite what he means. “If I hurt you in a way you don’t want to be hurt,” he says, finally, “then you safeword. It doesn’t… it doesn’t mean we won’t do this again. Just that we’ll stop, for now.”

Klaus smiles at him, something soft and fragile. “I know,” he says, gently, and Diego doesn’t think about the kind of blatant trust that takes.

“Hands under your head,” he says, instead of anything else, and Klaus obeys. Diego gives him a few moments to shift around and get comfortable, and then he settles himself on the bed as well, reaching for the bottle of rubbing alcohol. Holding the knife over Klaus’ chest, he splashes some of the liquid over the blade, ignoring the way Klaus gasps when the drops land on his bare skin. With the blade clean, he dips his fingers into the puddle between Klaus’ ribs, and then quickly smears the alcohol across Klaus’ skin. His ribs, his throat, his stomach, his thighs - they all get wiped down, until it’s all Diego can smell in the room. It’s not exactly pleasant, but infection isn’t, either. 

“Now, be still.”

Klaus’ eyes are wide and dark as Diego lays the flat of the blade against his skin, just under his collarbone. Klaus is holding his breath - there’s no steady rise and fall of his chest to jar the knife, to make it move in a way Diego doesn’t want. 

“So perfect for me,” Diego says, and then draws the tip of the knife in a short, thin line just under Klaus’ collar bone. Crimson blood wells up immediately, a bead of it sliding down Klaus’ chest to pool at his sternum. Diego draws the knife away, and Klaus shivers, letting out a shaky breath as gooseflesh breaks out over his arms and chest. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. He lifts his head up to look at the cut, and then immediately drops it back down onto his hands, screwing his eyes shut. “Fuck, Di.”

“Color?”

“So fucking green.”

Diego grins, and then puts the knife back to Klaus’ skin and draws another line under the opposite collar bone. Klaus sucks in a deep breath when he’s done, and fuck, he’s already a picture, with little rivulets of blood running down his chest, marring pale skin. Diego’s cock twitches in his pants, once at the sight of the blood, and once again when he drags his gaze lower, to where Klaus’ dick is laying against his hip, hard and leaking pearlescent precome at the tip. 

Diego flips the blade closed, and then drags the blunt edge of the handle up the length of Klaus’ dick. The other man trembles underneath the touch, trying to keep still like he was told, but obviously wanting to press up into the touch all the same. It’s beautiful, but bittersweet.

“No way you’re gonna last, baby,” Diego says, and Klaus huffs out a laugh and shakes his head.

“Yeah, no.”

“That’s okay.” Flexing his fingers, Diego flips the knife open again, reaching up to trace the tip of it over Klaus’ cheek, then down over his lips, his chin, over the bump of his Adam's apple. He’s careful not to break the skin, but the threat of it is enough to have Klaus fisting his hands in his own hair and biting his lip in an effort to keep still, to be _good_.

Diego briefly considers laying the flat of the knife against Klaus’ throat and then jerking him off, but his brother’s self-control is iffy on a good day. Diego doubts he’ll be able to resist moving, resist fucking up into Diego’s hand with every ounce of leverage he can muster. 

The tip of the blade continues downward, passing through the small pool of blood over Klaus’ sternum and dragging it down over his chest. He still doesn’t break the skin, until he gets to Klaus’ hip and murmurs a, “Be still,” before making a cut, quick and shallow, right over the protrusion of his hip bone.

Klaus _whines_ , but he doesn’t move, not an inch, until Diego pulls the knife away. Then his hips buck up in a half-aborted thrust, needy and impatient, and it’s too soon, but Diego thinks another cut might be too much, might push his brother a little too far.

Without a word, he wraps his fingers around Klaus’ cock, giving him a slow, dry stroke, but if the way Klaus’ body all but bows up off the bed, he doesn’t really care that it’s not the best hand job in the world. 

“Baby,” Diego murmurs, and Klaus cries out, color tinting his cheeks at the endearment. “That’s it, baby. Be good and come for me.”

Klaus doesn’t come on command, not quite, but Diego grips him a little tighter and strokes him a little faster and then he does, spilling over his own stomach with a choked-off sound. His cock jerks in Diego’s hand a few times, and under him Klaus’ body shakes, riding out the aftershocks of his orgasm. He keeps his hands behind his head, though, like he was told, and Diego feels a swell of affection in his chest.

He cleans Klaus up carefully, dabbing at where the blood is still wet and sticky, leaving it alone where it’s starting to scab. He wipes the come from his stomach as well, and then sets his knife on the nightstand to deal with later, before laying down as well, curling up next to his brother. Klaus folds into his arms easily, tucking his head under Diego’s chin and wrapping long, lanky limbs around Diego’s still-clothed form. Diego strokes his back gently, and they just lay there in silence for a little bit, until Klaus sniffles and cuddles a little closer, and Diego draws him in a little tighter. 

“Good?” 

Klaus nods, and Diego presses a kiss to his hair. 

“Green, Di.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are gonna learn a lot about my taste in music over the next month


	3. with this bated breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Human Furniture | **Sounding** | Macro/Micro
> 
> Rating: E  
> Fandom: Apex Legends  
> Pairing: Elliott/Nox  
> Relevant tags: sounding, overstimulation, crying, edging
> 
> Title from The All-American Rejects' "Real World"

Elliott is trembling all over. He can't stop. The little motions are as involuntary as the quiet moans and gasps falling from his lips with every shaky exhale. _Fuck_. He's losing control.

A large, rough hand squeezes his dick, and Elliott's eyes nearly roll into the back of his head.

Scratch that. He's lost control. It's gone.

He’s trembling, but he can’t move. Not voluntarily, at least. Most of his body feels numb, disconnected, except where he’s being touched. There, he’s on fire. He can feel blood surging below his skin, throbbing in time with the rapid beating of his heart. Beyond that, he can feel arousal coiling low in his gut, wrapping itself tighter and tighter around him - if he were in control, he would have come twice over, already. But he’s not.

Nox tightens his fingers again, squeezing hard, sensitive flesh between them, and Elliott spasms, his fingers twisting helplessly in the sheets underneath him. The scientist’s hand feels good, there’s no doubt about that, but it’s not just the skin-on-skin that’s spinning him closer and closer to the edge.

Four inches of the steel sound are currently inside him, inside his cock, pressed tightly against all those sensitive bits because Nox keeps _squeezing_ , keeps moving it, and Elliott can’t catch his breath. He’s full, and it’s unfamiliar and strange and it’s good and he wants to come, he fucking needs to come, but the metal rod and Nox’s hand are stopping him from tipping over that blissful edge. He hates it. He doesn’t, though, and that’s almost worse. 

He _whines_ , a high-pitched, pitiful sound, and above him, Nox just smirks and taps the sound with his fingernail. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Elliott breathes, his fingers abandoning the sheets to fist in his own hair. It’s grounding, makes him feel less like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. 

Then Nox adjusts his grip and the sound sinks a little deeper, and Elliott’s vision goes spotty around the edges. 

“I can’t,” he begins, because he _can’t_ , not with the sound inside, not with Nox’s thumb pressing down hard at the base of his cock, keeping his balls from drawing up tight against his body. He can’t, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to combust from it, from the heat that won’t stop pooling in his belly and the ratcheting tension in his chest. It’s too fucking much.

He doesn’t tell Nox to stop.

So the man doesn’t. He spreads a little more lube around the tip of Elliott’s cock, and he’s so sensitive there that the touch almost burns, but Nox doesn’t linger. He doesn’t have to. With the extra slick, the sound starts to move again, sinking further into Elliott with every breath. His cock feels like it’s stuffed, like he’s getting fucked but so, so much more, and that feeling only intensifies when the sound stops moving again. This time, the shiny metal bead at the end of it rests flush against his skin, standing out in stark contrast to the deep red of his cockhead. 

Elliott’s head falls back against the pillow, his gaze going hazy. He realizes it’s from tears only when they spill down over the sides of his face. He sucks in a sharp breath. “Please,” he begs, and his voice sounds raw and ragged, even to his own ears. “Fucking… I need to…”

“No one’s stopping you.”

As if to prove his point, Nox moves his hand, stroking up the length of Elliott’s cock so that his fingers aren’t acting as a makeshift cockring anymore. And it’s instant, almost. It’s sudden, because there’s no more buildup, no more edging, no more teasing. But it’s not quick. Elliott’s orgasm hits him with a force that leaves him breathless, and then it just… doesn’t stop. There’s no petering off, no winding down, just… a single wave of pleasure that never fucking crests, just builds and builds and builds, and Elliott…

Elliott sobs when Nox removes the sound. 

There aren’t any spurts of come that hit him on the chin. No, instead it just dribbles out of him, slowly, pooling on his belly where his cock is laying, spent but not yet softening, still achingly hard as Elliott’s load slowly trickles out.

He still feels so fucking _full_.

Nox strokes a finger down the length of his cock, and Elliott shivers, torn between shrinking away from the touch and pressing into it. But the contact doesn’t linger. Nox removes his hand, and Elliott mourns the loss for all of two seconds before it’s back, this time in the form of a warm rag skimming across his stomach, cleaning up the mess he made. 

“Easy, now,” Nox murmurs, and Elliott lets his eyes flutter closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this begins to hit my other Elliott/Nox fic's levels of filth, but here it is anyway :)


	4. burn like a comet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: **Fisting** | Medical Play | Orgasm Denial
> 
> Rating: E  
> Fandom: The Witcher  
> Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier  
> Relevant tags: fisting, mild angst, emotional hurt/comfort, feels, anal fingering, soft!Geralt, coming untouched, praise kink, pet names
> 
> Title from 3OH3!'s "Slow Motion"

It’s their seventh spring together on the road, and by this time, Jaskier is familiar with watching _winter_ Geralt transform into _spring_ Geralt. And Jaskier understands that it’s necessary, that Geralt allows himself to be vulnerable at Kaer Morhen and that, on the Path, he simply can’t do that. The monsters would tear him to shreds, and even if they didn’t, the humans they encountered on their travels could be monstrous enough. No, it’s definitely better for Geralt to protect himself, even though Jaskier wishes wholeheartedly that he didn’t have to.

They’ve met earlier this season than they usually do. The air is still cold, and the days are still short, but they’re together at an inn all the same and Geralt… Geralt is still _soft_. Jaskier doesn’t know what else to call it. Geralt hasn’t drawn the protective cover all the way over yet, and part of Jaskier wishes he’d never seen it, because he’s never going to forget the way Geralt sounds when he laughs, genuinely, deep and rich and honest, at one of Jaskier’s offhand jokes. And he’s never going to forget, either, the way the witcher sobers almost immediately, his eyebrows drawing in like he’s about to chastise himself.

“I know,” Jaskier says, when Geralt looks up. “I know.”

In the springtime, Geralt visits a brothel. It’s not _a_ specific brothel, of course, but he always goes to one, and that’s usually the indicator that, come morning, _winter_ Geralt will be all but gone. The timing of the whole little ritual doesn’t make a lot of sense to Jaskier, but, then again, most witcher-y things don’t. He doesn’t question it. He _wants_ to question it, but despite popular belief, he does know when to hold his tongue. He knows that questioning Geralt about this won’t actually get him any answers - it’ll just get Geralt to close up that much quicker. 

Jaskier doesn’t question it, but he doesn’t forget about it either. 

Geralt leaves for the brothel two nights after they reunite, a pouch of gold in his pocket and his swords and armor left in the little room at the inn. He leaves Jaskier there as well, although the bard doesn’t try very hard to follow. Geralt always brushes aside his half-joking offers to share a whore when they’re short on money, and Jaskier doesn’t really think this would be any different.

Perhaps ten minutes after Geralt leaves, the door to the room slams open and the witcher himself strides back through, his expression clouded with what Jaskier only barely recognizes as disappointment. He’s never seen that particular emotion on Geralt’s normally inexpressive face. Anger, sure. Annoyance, definitely. He’s even seen uncertainty and _fear_ , once or twice. But this… this lingering sadness, this air of resignation, it’s new, and Jaskier doesn’t like it.

“Back so soon?” he asks, and he knows immediately that it’s the wrong thing to say, because Geralt’s face draws up tight, the hurt in his expression fading away. He fancies the witcher even holds himself a little taller, a little stiffer, hiding away any inkling that witchers can _feel_.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tries again, “if you’re short on coin, all you have to do is ask. Melitele knows you’ve paid my way enough. Here, i can…”

Geralt mumbles something unintelligible, throwing his purse down on the table. When Jaskier makes a soft, questioning sound, though, the witcher’s shoulders slump.

“They don’t serve monsters,” Geralt says, and Jaskier can hear someone else’s voice in the echo of his words. Fury burns hot inside him - Geralt’s reputation has improved over the years, and deservedly so, but there are still pockets of ignorance, still people that refuse to look past the white hair and golden eyes to see the _man_ underneath. 

“Don’t,” Geralt says, and Jaskier realizes he’s already rising to his feet, intending to walk himself down to the brothel and given the madame a piece of his mind. But Geralt just shakes his head, his lips pressed tightly together. “They… all of them, were afraid of me. I won’t take someone to bed who reeks of fear. It’s fine. Just leave it.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, and he fully intends on saying something along the lines of _I’m sure they weren’t all afraid of you_ or something equally stupid and placating, but instead what comes out is, “I don’t smell of fear, do I?”

He expects Geralt to mock him, or, really, to just ignore him, but instead the witcher looks over at him, one eyebrow arched just so, his expression evaluating instead of dismissive, and an entirely inappropriate flare of heat curls low in Jaskier’s stomach. For a moment, they just look at each other, Jaskier’s words hanging in the space between them, and then, finally, Geralt huffs a little laugh and shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “You don’t.”

 _It’s not a no_. That’s all Jaskier can think of. It has to be clear what he’s implying, what he’s thinking, even without Geralt’s enhanced sense of smell no doubt picking up the arousal simmering under Jaskier’s skin. He balks for a moment, because this is new territory, uncharted waters, and Geralt hasn’t fully turned off yet, hasn’t closed the doors on his winter self. It’s.. different.

Jaskier swallows. “I’m not afraid of you,” he says, deliberately, and watches the way Geralt’s eyes dart back to him, looking him over once again. “You’re not a monster.”

“You don’t know what I’m like in bed.”

“You’re not one out of it,” Jaskier counters. “What, do you take your clothes off and suddenly lose all self-control and decency?”

Geralt actually flinches away from him at that, like Jaskier actually reached out to strike him, and the bard’s chest aches at the sight. “Darling,” he says, taking a hesitant step forward. When Geralt doesn’t move away, he takes another, and another, until he’s standing in front of the other man, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off Geralt’s body. “Darling, I know you don’t, because I know you. You like to play like you’re gruff and callous and uncaring, but please. Let’s not pretend I believed that act for more than a day or two.”

He smiles, gently, and Geralt doesn’t smile back, but he doesn’t lose some of the tension in his shoulders, around his eyes. “You don’t know what I want,” he says, but it sounds less like an argument and more like an admission. Like a confession. 

“True,” Jaskier admits. “I won’t know until you tell me. But Geralt, I doubt you want anything I haven’t tried before. I doubt you want anything I wouldn’t be willing to give you. You…” he pauses, hesitating. “It’s an offer. Honestly, wholeheartedly, and in good faith. Whether you take it is up to you.”

They stand in silence for a moment, long enough that Jaskier begins to feel words crawling up his throat, itching to fill the void, but just as he’s about to break and start to ramble, Geralt sighs. Then he nods, almost to himself, before looking up at Jaskier again.

“Your hand,” he says. “That’s what I want.”

Jaskier raises his hand, spreading his fingers, and raises an eyebrow. “My hand?” he repeats, dragging the pads of his fingers down the front of Geralt’s shirt. “There’s a lot I can do with my hand. I think you’re going to have to be more specific, witcher.”

Geralt ducks his head, hiding his face behind the strands of hair that have fallen loose from the tie. Jaskier lets him hide for a moment, more than content to draw his fingers up and down Geralt’s chest, the barest of touches, but more than he’s been able to do for months. He can feel the outline of Geralt’s muscles under his shirt, can sense the raw power in them, hidden just under the surface. 

“I…” Geralt begins quietly, and then shakes his head ever so slightly. “Your hand,” he repeats. “I want… I want it in me.”

 _Hand_ , Geralt says. Not fingers. Hand. Jaskier swallows, and he knows the tips of his ears are burning red, because he’s picturing it now, opening Geralt up on his fingers one by one, until they can all fit inside him, until Geralt take can the stretch of his knuckles and take _everything_ , and fuck, it’s a pretty picture. He makes a sound deep in his throat, flattening his palm against Geralt’s chest to steady himself.

“Fuck,” he says softly. “Yes, darling, of course. Of course. Here, I’ll…”

He doesn’t finish the rest of his sentence, though, because Geralt inexplicably takes a step back, away from Jaskier and his hand and the rest of his body parts that are all very, very interested in the proceedings. It becomes evident quickly what the man is doing, though, as he shifts to strip off his shirt, tossing it onto the table on top of the bag of coin. 

“Someone’s eager,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt ducks his head again, hiding behind his hair once more. This time, he’s bare chested, and Jaskier can see the way he tenses at the words, like he’s preparing for a blow. “Not a bad thing, love,” Jaskier continues. The endearment tastes different on his tongue. “I just don’t want you to feel rushed.” He pauses, tilting his head. “You’re not paying for my time, Geralt. This is… different. There’s no rush. There’s no… the rules are different. You can take your time, you can _kiss_ me, you can…”

At some point, Jaskier thinks, he’s going to have to actually finish a sentence. This is not that time, though, and he’s really not complaining, because Geralt chooses to cut him off with a kiss, hard and deep and fast. It’s not particularly good, not at first, more frantic than romantic in any case, but Jaskier eases it slowly, gentling Geralt with an easy hand on the back of his neck. The second kiss is much better, especially when Geralt’s tongue darts out to lick at the seam of Jaskier’s lips, hesitant in its askance, but asking all the same. The sensation of Geralt’s tongue slipping back his lips and into his mouth goes straight to Jaskier’s cock, nearly making him dizzy with the sudden redirection of blood. 

When they break, Geralt’s lips are wet and red, and it takes all of Jaskier’s self control not to simply dive back in. But Geralt is breathing a little faster, and his eyes are dark, and his request is still very much at the forefront of Jaskier’s mind. 

“Bed,” he says, surprised at how rough his own voice is. Geralt just nods, stripping out of his pants with more natural ease than Jaskier will ever have in his lifetime, and then he moves to sit on the edge of the mattress in just his smalls. He looks up at Jaskier then, hesitating before opening his mouth. 

“You have oil?” he asks, and Jaskier lurches into motion.

“Of course, of course,” he assures the witcher, kneeling by his bag to rummage around for the little vial of chamomile oil. He’d bought it with the intention of rubbing it into Geralt’s shoulders after the harder hunts, but this was so, so much better than that. Standing, he sets the vial on the mattress, and then, gently, nudges Geralt’s shoulder, urging him to lay down. “On your stomach, please,” he says, and the heady feeling of Geralt just… obeying, is truly intoxicating. 

With Geralt lying down, Jaskier takes a moment to just… look. The witcher’s back is a mess of scars, both new and old - some of them were wounds Jaskier tended to himself, and some of them were already healed long before he was even born. But Jaskier likes the scars. He doesn’t like that Geralt had to suffer to get them, but he does like what they stand for - another day survived. 

“Gods,” he murmurs, reaching out to run his fingers up the length of Geralt's spine. Geralt shivers, just slightly. There’s more he could say - he’s waxed poetic about Geralt’s body before, and he’ll likely do it again, but he has a mission, now, and he doesn’t want to lose focus.

Geralt’s smalls slide down off his hips with a gentle tug, and then he’s fully bare to Jaskier’s gaze. For all the times Jaskier has rubbed oil into Geralt’s skin, the sight should be familiar, but the air is charged this time, there’s _intent_ this time. Jaskier swallows.

“Spread a little for me, darling.”

The witcher obeys, shifting to spread his legs, and Jaskier doesn’t leave him alone and waiting for long. He grabs the oil, thumbing the cork open, spilling a generous amount over his hand. Then, slowly, he reaches out, dragging a single finger up the cleft of Geralt’s ass.

Geralt stiffens immediately, but he relaxes almost as suddenly, sinking down into the mattress with a barely audible sigh. It’s a content, happy sound, one that Jaskier is simultaneously surprised to hear and instantly dedicated to making happen again. With that goal in mind, he deliberately circles Geralt’s hole with his finger, choking down a bolt of arousal when the other man presses back against him. 

“Patience,” he manages to say, but he eases his finger forward anyway, relishing the way Geralt opens around him. The oil makes it slick and easy, but Geralt is relaxed as well, welcoming the intrusion of Jaskier’s finger into his body. The second is more of a stretch, but Jaskier is practiced, and Geralt's body is willing. 

“Melitele’s tits,” Jaskier mutters under his breath. “You really want my whole hand?”

Geralt hums, which isn’t an answer, and he cants his hips back against Jaskier’s hand, which really isn’t an answer either, but Jaskier knows a demand when he sees one. He nods, even though Geralt can’t see him, and then starts to scissor his fingers, stretching Geralt in preparation for a third. He curls them, deliberately, and is rewarded when the witcher _moans_ , turning his face into the pillow to muffle the noise. And, Gods, Jaskier wants to hear him, but they aren’t the only people staying at the inn, and getting kicked out while in the middle of their activities would be… less than ideal.

Geralt takes a third finger just as easily as the first two. The sound of Jaskier fucking them into his hole is obscene in the relative silence of their room, marred only by the wet sounds of the oil and Geralt’s own breathing, growing heavier by the minute. He’s not quite panting, but his breaths are rougher, faster, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his back that Jaskier has the ridiculous urge to _lick_.

Jaskier adds more oil, and then he starts spreading his fingers again, alternating the gentle pulses with deliberate drags against Geralt’s prostate, drawing muffled groans from the man every time Jaskier so much as nudges that sensitive spot. 

He’s not sure how much time passes like that, his fingers slowly fucking Geralt loose and open, but when the slide becomes easy Geralt tilts his hips again, asking, and Jaskier eases his pinkie in alongside his other fingers. This time, Geralt gasps at the intrusion, his hips jerking down into the mattress before pushing back against Jaskier’s fingers, like he can’t decide if he likes the feeling or not. Of its own accord, Jaskier’s other hand comes up to lay against Geralt’s flank, gentle and soothing, while his other hand stays absolutely still where it’s buried inside the witcher. 

“Geralt?” he asks, and the witcher _whines_ , wordless and needy. Jaskier hums, stroking his thumb over Geralt’s hip. “Easy,” he murmurs. “Easy, now. It’s all right. We’re almost there. Can you take a little more for me, darling? You’re doing so well, look at you. You’ve almost taken my whole hand. Just a little more and I can fuck you with it properly, if you’d like. Would you like that?”

Geralt’s answer is more of a whimper than anything else, but Jaskier can thrust four fingers into his hole with only the barest of resistance, so he tucks his thumb against his palm anyway. Geralt is trembling, faintly, and it’s easy to lean down a brush a kiss over the small of his back, easy to linger there until Geralt is gasping, open-mouthed, into the pillow, trying to shove back against Jaskier’s fingers. It’s only then that Jaskier presses his hand forward, slowly stretching the rim of Geralt’s hole over his knuckles, the widest part of his hand, murmuring praise against the small of his back. Then his knuckles are past the ring of resistance, and Geralt’s hole is closing around Jaskier’s wrist. 

“Oh,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt keens and shoves his hips back, actively fucking himself on Jaskier’s hand. The bard takes the hint, curling his fingers inside Geralt until they’re tucked into a loose fist, and _then_ he thrusts forward. The motion is gentle, and there’s barely any movement, but Geralt’s whole body seizes up as soon as Jaskier does it, his body tightening around Jaskier’s hand almost to the point of pain, and it takes Jaskier two more short, aborted thrusts to realize that Geralt _came_ from that first little movement, from the feeling of Jaskier’s fist moving inside him. 

He’s rambling aloud, praise and filth mixed in together, and Geralt is trembling again, keeps trembling as Jaskier slowly, carefully eases his hand out of Geralt’s stretched, sensitive hole. He presses another kiss to Geralt’s back as he rises, stepping over to the table to wash his hands in the basin sitting there, and then he’s back on the bed, wiping down Geralt’s ass and thighs with a wet rag as gently as he can. 

“So good for me,” he murmurs, and Geralt hums softly, his eyes closed and his body entirely relaxed.

In the morning, winter Geralt will be gone, and the stoic facade will be back in place to protect Geralt from the world around him. Jaskier knows that, in the morning, they’ll both act like nothing happened, like the night was like any other, and that they’ll continue on their way like before.

But for the moment, he allows himself to lay down next to Geralt and wrap the man up in an embrace, and Geralt, still not fully transitioned into that harder, spring version of himself, lets Jaskier hold him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “emotional fisting” isn’t a tag, but that’s exactly what this is and I’m NOT SORRY.


	5. passionate as sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: **Incest** | Breath Play | Leather/Latex
> 
> Rating: M  
> Fandom: The Umbrella Academy  
> Pairing: Diego/Klaus  
> Relevant tags: pseudo-incest, mentions of drug use, feels, first time, misunderstandings
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift's "Red"

The first time they fuck, Klaus is one-year sober (one year, five months, and eighteen days, not that either of them are counting). It’s an impulsive decision, and it’s not at the same time, because Klaus has wanted Diego since he first learned what wanting really was, and Diego… well, Klaus is no mind-reader, but he’s no stranger to being wanted, either.

They fit well together, during, and they fit well together after, too, when Klaus sprawls across Diego’s chest and Diego doesn't make him move. It’s the casual sort of intimacy that Klaus has experienced only once or twice before, and even then, it was a poor mockery of this, of the  _ safety _ and  _ belonging _ he feels, wrapped up in his brother’s arms. His lover’s arms? Klaus… isn’t sure, now. And it doesn’t matter, not really, but it’s a niggling thought in the back of his mind.

Diego shifts, leaning down, and Klaus feels the pressure of his lips against the top of his head. “You’re thinking too loud,” Diego murmurs. “One round not enough for you?”

Klaus feels his cock twitch hopefully at the thought of going again, and Diego must feel it too, because the other man chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. Klaus feels like preening. He loves it when Diego laughs. He remembers, very clearly, pulling increasingly stupid stunts as a kid just to get Diego to grin at him, to get the other boy to  _ laugh _ , and that base desire hasn’t changed much in the decades since. 

Klaus turns his head, closing his eyes and he presses farther into Diego’s chest. “I should probably stop telling people you’re my brother,” he says after a moment. “‘cause fuck knows I’m not gonna be able to act like it anymore.”

He feels Diego stiffen underneath him, and that’s… not the reaction he was hoping for.

“Oh,” he says quietly. He sits up, letting Diego’s arms fall away from around him. “Yeah, no. One time thing, right? That’s fine. I didn’t…” He waves a hand as he trails off, shaking his head, and to his immediate mortification, he feels tears start to well up.  _ Tears _ . He hasn’t cried after sex since he was… fuck, since he was sixteen, probably.

“Sorry,” he blurts, and then he goes to stand, but Diego’s arms wrap around him again and drag him back down before he can even get his feet on the floor. He struggles, briefly, but Diego’s grip on him is firm, and to break away Klaus would have to  _ hurt _ the other man, and he just… he can’t.

“Di,” he starts, and then stops when Diego shifts them, leaning down to press his forehead against Klaus’.

“You’re working yourself up about nothing,” Diego says, and Klaus shivers. His brother’s voice is sex-rough and low, quiet like he’s sleepy “I didn’t say this was a one-time thing. I didn’t say  _ anything _ , actually. Stop freaking out.”

Klaus frowns, but he doesn’t move from where they’re pressed together, even though having a conversation like that is a little less than comfortable. “I’m not freaking out,” he mutters, and it’s true. He’s not. Anymore. “You were just all… soft, and comfy-cozy, and I said that, and you were definitely not cozy anymore.”

Diego shifts, nudging their noses together, and then brushes a soft, chaste kiss over Klaus’ lips. “I didn’t like what you said,” he murmurs against Klaus’ mouth. “The other part.”

Klaus thinks for a moment, and then he pulls back a little, frowning at Diego. “What, that I should stop calling you my brother?”

Diego hums softly. His eyes are closed, now, and Klaus wants to shake him, a little, because they’re  _ talking _ and communication is important, or so his therapist says.

(She probably didn’t mean  _ talk to your brother about sleeping with him _ but Klaus is willing to extrapolate a little).

“Di,” Klaus says again, a little bit of a whine in his voice this time, and Diego opens his eyes. The motion is so obviously reluctant that Klaus  _ almost _ feels guilty about it. 

“You’re my brother,” Diego says. “Before anything else,  _ after _ anything else, you’re my brother. We can be  _ more _ , we can be  _ extra _ , but that never changes. That’s never gonna change. Got it?”

Klaus gets it, he does, but there’s more to it than that. “I meant the rest of what I said, too. I’m not gonna be able to act like you’re not… like we’re not… like I haven’t seen you naked and  _ liked _ it, okay?”

Diego shrugs. “Okay.”

Klaus has other arguments. People are going to know, and really, Klaus doesn’t care for himself, because there’s not much more he can do to ruin his reputation, and adding ‘brother-fucker’ to his list of commendations is a pretty small deal in the grand scheme of things. But Diego? Diego is straight-laced, a do-gooder, a  _ hero _ , and this could hurt him. It wouldn’t ruin him, not like if the public found out about Allison and Luther, but it would hurt him.

Diego sighs, and then he reaches up, putting a hand over Klaus’ eyes. “I’ll work harder next time to make your brain turn off,” he murmurs. “Really, Klaus. I don’t give a shit what people think. Do you?”

Klaus snorts under his breath. The answer to that question, and they both know it, is a resounding  _ no _ . Diego must be thinking the same thing, because he laughs, soft and breathless, and then kisses the tip of Klaus’ nose. 

“Go to sleep,” he says.

And maybe Klaus doesn’t fall asleep immediately, but he does drift off eventually, wrapped up in the familiar comfort of his brother’s embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinktober, but make it _emotional_.


	6. show praise with your body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: **Double Penetration in One Hole** | Boot Worship | Lactation
> 
> Rating: E  
> Fandom: The Outer Worlds  
> Pairing: Male!Captain/Felix  
> Relevant tags: double penetration in one hole, ABO, nontraditional Alpha/Omega dynamics, heat sex, reader insert
> 
> Title from Panic! At the Disco's "Hallelujah".

They’re an odd little group, your crew.

Most captains hire Alphas, with a handful of Betas mixed in to stop anyone from getting  _ too _ territorial. Most captains  _ are _ Alphas, relying on their secondary gender to garner respect and obedience. A lot has changed since you went on ice, but a lot has stayed the same, too - unfortunately, you’re very familiar with this particular dynamic. 

Your crew’s split is 2/2/2 - even, and you haven’t had a single issue with it. Nyoka and Ellie are laid-back Alphas, Parvati and Felix are fierce Omegas, and you and Max are bossy Betas. It works. Somehow. You really don’t question it. You have more important things to worry about than secondary genders, like the looming end of the world. 

Then, one day, while you’re trekking across an asteroid in search of a mysterious hermit, Felix says, “I fucking  _ hate _ spending my heat alone.”

“You don’t have to,” you reply. Next to you, Max laughs under his breath, although you’re not sure what the joke is. “As long as ADA clears any Alpha you want to bring on board, it’s fine to…”

Felix makes a face, shaking his head. “Hard pass on the Alphas, boss,” he says. “Not my thing.”

And, really, it shouldn’t be surprising. Felix is fairly non-traditional, as far as Omegas go. Why wouldn’t that extend to his sexuality as well? In any case, it doesn’t  _ matter, _ not really, because it doesn’t change anything. You haven’t has sex since you came off the ice, but Felix, with his wide eyes and hero-worship and  _ preference _ for non-Alphas is not an option. 

Period. End of story.

* * *

“Hey, boss?”

You look up to see Felix leaning against the doorway to your room, your Captain’s quarters. The kid doesn’t bug you there often. The kid doesn’t bug you often  _ period,  _ not unless you start a conversation first. Then he’ll more than willingly talk your ear off. But he’s rarely the one to start them, to prompt, to  _ ask _ .

“Something wrong?” you ask, and Felix blushes almost instantly, color flooding high into his cheeks. It’s… not the reaction you expected. You turn, giving the kid your full attention, and then you nod at the door. “Come on in. I don’t bite.”

Felix snorts at that, but he closes the door behind him and comes closer, moving to sit on the edge of your bunk. He hesitates for a moment, but then he’s biting his lip and looking up at you, and that’s when the scent hits you. It’s not heat, not fully, but there’s a hint of it under Felix’s normal scent, spice under the usual leather and fresh baked bread. Pre-heat. 

“The other day,” Felix begins, “I was walking about how much I hated spending my heat alone. Remember?”

You nod.

“Right.” Felix takes a breath, rolling his shoulders back. “Well, uh, like I said, I really do hate spending it alone. And Alphas are out of the question. Nyoka suggested I go groundside on Monarch and pick someone up, but, uh, for a heat? That’s… that’s a lot of trust to put in some stranger. Even if ADA is looking out for me. Which I don’t really want to think about.”

Felix pauses, long enough that you assume he means for you to speak now. “Okay,” you say, slowly. “Do you want to make a detour back to the Groundbreaker? I don’t mind, if there’s someone there you trust.”

“I trust you,” Felix blurts. The color in his cheeks darkens. “I - I mean, that’s why I came to talk to you. ‘cause I trust you, and you’re no Alpha, and I know you’re not gonna get... weird, afterward, like all of a sudden I’m no use around here just because you put your dick in me.”

“Be straight with me,” you say, and then, when Felix winces at the harshness of your words, you sigh. “I’m not trying to be mean, kid. I just… something like this, I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings. Just ask me what you want, plain and simple, all right?”

Felix nods, his hands twisting in his lap. “Yeah, all right. Al right. I want… I want you to spend my heat with me. In, ah, full capacity. Sexually. With the intention of…”

“I got it, kid.”

Grinning briefly and very obviously relieved, Felix leans back a little, sighing. “Cool. Yeah. I, uh, I have toys, too. Easier when I’m by myself, but it makes partnering easier too, ‘cause Betas don’t trigger like Alphas do and…”

“I had sex ed too,” you interrupt gently. “A Beta and a backup. Good plan.”

Felix frowns at you, though the expression is more confused than anything else. “That’s not a yes.”

“You haven’t asked me anything,” you counter. “I meant it. Ask.”

“Will you partner me for my heat?”

* * *

You say yes, because of course you do. Because Felix rarely asks for anything, much less something that’s this sensitive, and you may not have an Alpha’s instincts to  _ mate _ and  _ claim _ , but you still want to protect the kid. Take care of him. Wring countless orgasms out of him when he’s slick and wanting. 

Felix, when he’s slick and wanting, is a sight to behold.

His favorite position is on top of you, straddling your hips with your cock buried deep inside him. Like this, his nails leave red marks on your chest and his dick leaks pre on your stomach, and he controls the pace. You’re far from a passive observer, however.

Felix doesn’t need a knot, doesn’t particularly  _ want _ a knot either, but his body still reacts to being stretched open, still releases the same calming hormones that take the edge off his heat. And you don’t have a knot, but you do have access to Felix’s collection of toys, and really, that’s better. The one in your hand is about the size of your own cock, but it’s neon green and ribbed. The first time Felix sinks down over the ribbing, his eyes flutter and his nails dig sharply into your chest and he leans into the hand you have on his hip, steadying him.

“‘s good,” he murmurs, like it isn’t fucking obvious.

For the first day, you alternate between the toy and your cock, switching out when your body refuses to redirect blood flow anymore. But by the second morning, Felix rocking on your dick and whining about how he wants _ more _ , and really, the only logical thing you can think of is to give him more.

He’s wet and loose enough that a finger slips in easy next to your cock. Two fingers makes him suck in a breath, makes his hips jerk up and then  _ down _ , firmly, as he tries to get them deeper. “Fuck, yeah,” he says under his breath, and for a few moments, he seems content enough to keep riding you like that, but when you tease him with a third, he nods immediately.

It’s an awkward position and your wrist is cramping but Felix looks like he’s  _ flying _ , his head thrown back as he rocks his hips in tiny, aborted thrusts. He comes, suddenly, when you try to stretch your fingers apart, to get him a little looser, and then he all but collapses on your chest, riding out the aftershocks with little twitches and whimpers.

Despite Felix’s unhappy whine, you slide your fingers out of him, reaching for the toy that never quite seems to make it very far. “Easy,” you murmur. You’re still hard, still buried inside the other man, and you know that, in a moment, he’ll be ready to go again. “It’s all right. You want more?”

Felix nods against your chest, his lips catching on your collar bone, and you feel his sharp inhale when you tease his entrance with the head of the toy. He’s still tight, and it’s still a stretch, but the head pops in next to your cock after a minute or two of gentle teasing, and  _ oh _ , the sound he makes when it does. His cock jerks between you, and it takes you a moment to realize that he came again, untouched, from just the sensation.

“So good,” you murmur, and Felix shivers. Another inch of the toy slides into him. You can feel the ribbing against your cock, and you jolt when it passes over the sensitive head, pulling a sharp whine from the body above you. “Almost there,” you say. “You want the rest?”

In response, Felix pushes himself up so he’s straddling you properly again. His eyes are dark, his lips wet, his skin flushes all the way down over his chest. He nods shakily, and then lifts up, letting you line the toy up properly with your own cock.   


“Slow,” you say, and for once, Felix listens. He lowers himself back down slowly, rocking down in tight little motions to take another inch, another rib. By the time he’s halfway down he’s shivering, sweat beading on his brow, and his eyes are so dark the brown is almost completely eclipsed by black. He pauses there, and you can feel him tense all around you, close and on the edge, so you wrap your free hand around his cock and stroke him until he comes with a sob. It’s mostly dry at this point, but he relaxes beautifully afterwards, and sinks down the rest of the way in one smooth motion.

It’s not a knot, but it’s convincing enough. Felix sags like his strings have been cut, all but collapsing against your chest. The arm that’s not holding the toy comes up to wrap around him, gently stroking his back, his thighs, his ass, as you murmur in his ear that he’s good, that he can rest, that it’ll be all right.

Felix falls asleep on top of you, with two cocks buried inside him. 

An hour later, he wakes up the same way, and as thanks he rides you until you're hard again and you come all over him and the toy, both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnnnd I'm behind! I'm working on it Life comes at you fast, or some shit.
> 
> Okay maybe using ABO for this fill is a little bit of a copout but I also like ABO and I LOVE nontraditional dynamics, so here we are.


	7. put your eyes to the sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Free Use | **Sensory Deprivation** | Wax Play
> 
> Rating: E  
> Fandom: The Witcher  
> Pairing: Eskel/Jaskier  
> Relevant tags: sensory deprivation, mild dom/sub, touch-starved
> 
> Title from "The Carpal Tunnel of Love" by FOB.

Eskel hates his fucking face.

It’s no secret. It’s too fucking obvious to be a secret. He sees the way people flinch away from him when they first notice the scars, before they even see his golden eyes, the way men’s jaws tighten and the way women put a hand to their chests, startled. They sees the scars, and then they see the rest - the eyes and the swords - and, honestly, he should be used to the fear and the disdain, but he’s not.

* * *

It’s a rough year.

Contracts are few and far between. He doesn’t have the coin to feed himself supper everyday, much less to pay for a whore, and he isn’t like his brothers. Geralt and Lambert can, on occasion, find an adventurous villagers willing to bed them for nothing more than the bragging rights. Eskel does not get that pleasure. His company is bought and paid for, or it’s nonexistent.

He goes eight months without being touched. 

* * *

Eskel doesn’t think about his scars during the winter.

His brothers don’t flinch at the sight of him, so he… forgets, for a time. He lets himself lean into lingering embraces, lets a sturdy, familiar body wrap around him at night, and he forgets. 

Except one winter, when he returns to Kaer Morhen, Geralt has a human in tow. Eskel can smell him from the courtyard, so he’s braced and ready when the boy turns to look at him and his jaw drops. He’s prepared for the scent of revulsion to permeate the air, but the boy’s eyes don’t go hard and he doesn’t shrink back away from the witcher. Instead, his smile  _ brightens _ , and he spins on his heel, abruptly raising his hand to smack Geralt on the shoulder.

“You didn’t tell me your brother was  _ attractive _ !” he shouts, and Eskel expects it, listens for it, but there’s no hint of mockery in his voice. He’s being… honest. 

Eskel blinks, and then the boy is in front of him, holding out his hand. “Jaskier,” he introduces himself. “I’m… well, people call me Geralt’s bard, though I can assure you there is no possession there, either way. I am a bard, though. Perhaps you’ve heard my work?” He hums the first few bars of a song that Eskel is all too familiar with, one that has softened a few attitudes over the years. 

The boy is still holding out his hand.

“In any case,” he continues, “it truly is a pleasure to meet you. Geralt has told me exactly two things about his family, and I’m not sure how he expects me to write ballads based on  _ two _ details, honestly, Geralt, but that’s no matter. You’re here!”

Eskel blinks again, and the boy’s smile diminishes a little bit. Eskel finds that he very much does not like that, so he thrusts out his own hand and shakes the human’s, carefully. 

His first skin-to-skin contact in months is a handshake, and it isn’t much, but Jaskier’s grip is sure and firm and his eyes are bright and he’d offered the touch, willingly. Eskel looks up to find Geralt looking over at them, and all he sees in his brother’s eyes in understanding. 

“Eskel,” he replies, and Jaskier  _ beams _ .

“A gorgeous name for a gorgeous man,” Jaskier says, and again, his voice is heavy with honesty. 

There’s a clanging from the kitchen and Lambert shouts for assistance, and to Eskel’s surprise, Jaskier is the one to skip off in his direction, shouting something back over his shoulder about talking later. And then he’s gone, and it’s just Eskel and Geralt alone.

“He’s like that,” Geralt says as he approaches, and Eskel is relieved when the man throws his arms around him, pulling him in for a tight embrace. “Strange one. But… he’s good, Esk.”

Eskel just sinks into the embrace and tries not to think about how he can still feel Jaskier’s fingers curled around his own.

* * *

It takes three days for Jaskier to end up in Eskel’s bed.

* * *

At first, it’s too much. The bard is everywhere, his  _ hands _ are everywhere, skirting up Eskel’s sides, brushing over a nipple, squeezing his bare ass. But his gaze is worse. It never leaves Eskel’s face. He looks up at the witcher like he’s enraptured by a sunrise and Eskel… Eskel doesn’t know how to deal with it. 

And Jaskier, because he’s smart, notices. And he  _ croons _ , leaning up to press their noses together in a gesture far too chaste and intimate given the fact that their cocks are also pressed together, and he says, “You don’t like me looking?”

Eskel’s breath catches in his throat. 

Jaskier makes another sound, soft and understanding, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his head, brushing his lips over Eskel’s cheek, over the scars that mar his face. A choked-off whine escapes Eskel’s lips, entirely of its own volition, and Jaskier just shushes him gently, pressing soft, lingering kisses to the ruined flesh.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. It’s a lot. Here.” He reaches up and guides Eskel’s head down, and the witcher happily hides his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, screwing his eyes shut as the bard just… continues. His lips are dry and warm as they pass over the scars on Eskel’s face, slow and careful, and Eskel can feel himself beginning to tremble. It should be easier to focus with his eyes closed, but instead, everything else just feels…  _ more _ . Jaskier’s lips send tingles of sensation through his ruined skin, sparks that seem to flow directly down his spine to his cock. He’s leaking between them, and his hips are moving of their own accord, tiny aborted thrusts that he can’t quite contain.

Jaskier kisses the corner of his mouth. “My dearest boy,” he says, and then he licks a broad stripe up the side of Eskel’s face.

Eskel screams, hoarse and ragged, and he comes.

* * *

He comes back to himself later on, draped across Jaskier’s lap, the bard’s fingers in his hair. His cheek is pressed against the man’s stomach, and his arms are wrapped tightly around him, like in his semi-coherent state, he’d latched on and refused to let go.

“There you are,” Jaskier says, his thumb stroking over Eskel’s cheek. It catches over the edge of a scar, and Eskel shivers, his eyes sliding shut of their own accord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I failed at Kinktober. Big surprise. But I still wanna write all the prompts, so Imma keep going. Don't mind me. 
> 
> (lowkey using fic rn to cope with the election. your author is in america. we are not okay).


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